


Sonnet 43

by oldcoyote (contrawise)



Category: Marvel (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Crossover Pairings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:39:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/contrawise/pseuds/oldcoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine is injured in an attack on the city. Steve waits for him to wake up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sonnet 43

The book Blaine had been reading was old. The paper was browning, ruffled at the edges, and the spine showed its stitches. _Shakespeare_ , the cover said simply in faded gold embossing against a worn navy canvas.

Steve knew Blaine had left it on the nightstand, and that's where he found it, tucked it into his bag, and took it back to the hospital the second night.

_We don't know when. Could be tomorrow, it could be a few days. It could be longer. The body needs time to process. He'll wake up when he wakes up._

Steve read from the bookmark; a thin scrap of paper laced with Blaine's handwriting. He read aloud, but quietly, just between the two of them, just loud enough for his voice to carry over the thump and beep of machines.

The third night he kept reading, and every time he finished a sonnet, he looked up to the peaceful lines of Blaine's profile in the faint glow of the overhead lights. He looked like he was sleeping.

_He's going to be fine. The surgery went well. He's out of the woods. Now, we wait._

Steve stopped sometimes, pressed his thumb between the sheets of cool, smooth paper to keep his place, and just talked. He talked about his day, about the news or anything intersting he'd seen on the way over. He talked about how the city was cleaning up, about Tony's latest genius idea and how he wondered if it were possible to blackout the entire city from one building. He didn't doubt Tony could do it, naturally, but surely there'd be failsafes in place with a Stark living in New York.

He waited for the edges of Blaine's lips to curl up into a smile the way they always did when he talked about his team. But the curve never came, and the long dark lashes he'd kissed to sleep a hundred times, stayed asleep.

The fourth night, Steve sat restless in his chair by the bedside. The book remained closed, perched on the edge of the hospital tray by the water jug and cup that had been filled fresh every day but never used. He didn't know why he couldn't bring himself to keep reading, there was still so much left. A part of him wondered if it was because he was scared of what would happen when he finished the book.

He shifted in his seat, leaning back, and then forward on his elbows, head hanging. He waited.

It was past midnight when the nurse shuffled past and spared him a sympathetic glance, checking Blaine's machines again before she left silently. The upside of the hospital unit of SHIELD meant visiting hours were irrelevant.

Steve reached for the book, but stopped short, drawing his hand into a fist instead and pulling it back to rest on his knee. 

"Blaine," he said softly. "I can't think of… of anything else to talk about."

The beep and whirr of passing carts behind the curtains punctuated the quiet.

"I don't want to keep reading. Sweetheart, I can't."

He could hear other voices whispering in spaces behind him, nurses and doctors, other patients still recovering from the fallout of the last big battle. 

It was never supposed to reach as far as it did. It was never supposed to reach Blaine.

"You need to wake up now," Steve insisted.

He realised after a moment that each time he spoke, he was waiting for an answer.

Shakily, he pushed himself out of his chair and closed the gap between them. The hospital bed was long and wide and bathed in rich, plum sheets; an amendment made after complaints (and a sizeable donation) from Stark after the last battle. Steve had rolled his eyes at the time, but now, brushing fingers through the tangled curls at Blaine's forehead, he was more grateful for small graces than he decided Tony Stark should ever know.

It was easy to fit alongside Blaine without knocking any wires, and the overwhelming sense of peace that came with pulling Blaine into his arms was enough to quell the hot, uncomfortable thing lodged in his throat.

"It's been four days," Steve whispered into Blaine's hair, easing him up to fit both arms around him more securely. "You need to wake up now."

It was miniscule: the tiniest of flutters, just the barest hint of movement. It could have been a tremor, or a shiver - but it was _something_.

"Blaine?"

He didn't move.

"What do you want me to do? Sing?" Steve joked softly, ignoring the burning moisture behind his eyes.

It was an old joke between them. He never, ever sang - that was Blaine's department. But still, every time Steve wanted something, Blaine would ask him for it in return. _Just sing for me. Just one line._

Steve always said no, laughing it off, and it always ended there. It was too much of the what-was; the women in dresses cut from American flags, the parade and the pomp. All of it was trumpets and chorus lines, and all of it belonged to something he would never be again.

"I will, don't make me do it," Steve threatened, settling them both down against the pillows, Blaine's head tucked under his chin.

His voice trembled when he started, and it was soft as a whisper. "You are my sun-shine,"

Blaine's chest rose and fell.

"My only sun-shine. You make me… hap-py," his voice choked off quietly when Blaine's arm moved.

Both eyelids were slow and heavy, and only made it to half-mast, but he was in there, all the same.

His voice was bruised, but his lips curled into that tiny, beautiful curve of a smile. "Hey."

"Hi," Steve breathed out shakily, reaching for the cup of water by the bedside when Blaine motioned for it.

" _Blaine_ ," Steve said, as if it were the only thing he knew how to say.

"I feel awful," Blaine mumbled drowsily after a sip, handing back his cup. "You w-were singing?"

"Sorry about that," Steve said.

Blaine rolled his head on Steve's shoulder, breathing deeply. "I missed it."

Steve closed his eyes, kissing Blaine's hair and cradling his head, drowning in relief.

"Resorting to singing to wake me up," Blaine added. "That's mean."

"To be fair," Steve said, reaching for the call button. "I tried Shakespeare first."


End file.
